


To the Fullest

by pressforward



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Dark Continent Arc, Fingerfucking, Frenemies with Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, Trans!Pariston, Vaginal Fingering, pariging, trans!ging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressforward/pseuds/pressforward
Summary: Ging and Pariston spend some quality time together on the Black Whale.*Contains no spoilers for Dark Continent Arc
Relationships: Ging Freecs/Pariston Hill
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	To the Fullest

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been thinking about [this post](https://hunterxhell.tumblr.com/post/178530961422/i-hate-how-80-of-gings-connections-w-folks-is-him) and that tag for literally a year and a half.

In hindsight, the first mistake was probably fucking Pariston.

Ging scratches his chin, considers Pariston in the lamplight. No clocks, but it’s probably about 3 in the afternoon. Sure, maybe fucking Pariston wasn’t the best idea, but in his defense, he really wanted to do it. Besides, things are only a mistake if you don’t learn anything from them, and there’s nothing he hasn’t learned from yet. So what did he learn this time around?

Well, Pariston’s a screamer, obviously. No one puts that much effort into projecting a persona without bringing it into the bedroom, but Pariston’s the kind to put on a show regardless. If the guy actually had a genuine feeling, no way he’d let it slip. Easier to just cover it up with something manufactured.

Ging watches him a little longer, his eyes shut and flickering beneath his eyelids like he actually dreams, then nudges him.

“You’re awake,” Ging says. 

Pariston slits one eye open. “Oh? You could tell?”

“Duh.” He reaches out to thumb one of Pariston’s nipples, waits for the little nub to firm, then puts his hand over Pariston’s entire tit. It’s soft, and just enough for a handful. Not bad.

“Why don’t you get rid of these?” he says, then lets go, fingertips trailing.

“Like you?” Pariston says, shifts so Ging’s hand lands on his waist instead. Ging slides it up a little, then down and down some more to give Pariston’s ass a quick pat as he turns to glance around the room. His shirt’s somewhere on the floor.

“Yeah. It’s easy. Or you could use Nen, I guess,” he adds, like he’s fishing for info on Pariston’s abilities. 

“That wasn’t very subtle of you,” Pariston chides and Ging shrugs, then gets up to look for his shirt. Didn’t really matter. Maybe Pariston let something drop and he has more information than he did, or Pariston thinks he cares enough to try weaseling it out of him. Either way, it’s a useful situation.

He finds his undershirt and gives it a sniff, then turns it inside out and pulls it on. Pariston watches him do it, leaned partway up on the bed, chin propped on one hand, and Ging grins back at him.

“What’s up,” he says, then grabs his boxers and comes to sit on the bed. “If you wanna go again, I’ve probably got time for a quickie.”

“Ah, Ging,” Pariston says, smiling tender and insincere at him. “What a charming personality you have. No wonder you have so many friends.”

Ging laughs, then says, still grinning, “Get fucked.”

“With pleasure,” Pariston says silky-smooth, but his smile stretches wide and when Ging takes hold of his hip, he rolls right over, head going back against the sheets. Ging drops his boxers and follows after. 

He’s a _really good lay,_ is the thing. Super-responsive, hot and slick, and when Ging mouthes down along his belly then between his legs, he moans just right, hips starting to work. It’s a little cruddy down there after their last fuck, but Pariston keeps himself trimmed, and honestly? It’s not a big deal.

He licks broad and up between the folds of Pariston’s labia, and fuck, he’s soft, he’s always so soft. Pariston’s a nasty piece of work, but he fucks real nice. Ging gets tongue then lips on his clit, and Pariston’s legs drop wide open.

Great. Easier to suck on him then, lips and tongue then just a hint of teeth, because that’s how Pariston gets his kicks, when something hurts just a little. Too much, and he gets competitive, but a couple scrapes keeps him gasping appreciatively, legs spreading.

It’s simple after that, getting him to buck and moan, reading the shifts so he can get his hands behind Pariston’s knees, haul them up when Pariston starts getting too pushy. He’s fucking drenched now, hips working, hand settling on Ging’s head. That’s fine for now. Ging ignores it, keeps lapping and sucking as Pariston grinds against him, gasping.

Might as well move on down. Ging turns his head to take a breath, nips at Pariston’s inner thigh while he does it, then settles back against his cunt. It’s hot and wet and fucking _reeking_ like the underbelly of a seaside dock on a hot day, and that’s just the way he likes it.

Pariston, a consummate performer, lets out an appreciative moan. Then he goes tense, hand tight in Ging’s hair, going, “Ah, ah, _ah!”_ breathier and higher with each one.

Ging manages not to roll his eyes. There’s no one for Pariston to show off to, but probably Pariston thinks it might annoy him, or maybe turn him on, or both. Ging licks back up to his clit, one long sloppy stroke, then starts to suck. Pariston can make whatever noise he wants, honestly. Whatever gets his rocks off.

Meanwhile, Ging gets to mouthe him, taste him, slide lips and tongue against one soft curve after another. Every time Pariston so much as twitches, he chases the motion, laps him up. He keeps at it because, well, he likes it. Pariston bucks when he scrapes teeth against his clit, when he slides his tongue into the soft wet heat of Pariston’s body, when he buries his face in after like it’s a pie-eating contest and he intends to win. (He usually does.)

He figures he’s made his way through two, maybe three pies when Pariston does a full-body shudder and says breathlessly, “Oh, _Ging.”_

Right on schedule.

“Whatcha want?” Ging says, gaze flicking up though he hardly moves his mouth away, and Pariston just laughs low in his throat.

“I suspect you already know,” Pariston says, shutting his eyes, letting his head tilt to the side.

“This?” he says, brushes one fingertip against the soft wet heat of Pariston. “You want this?”

Pariston makes a tiny little noise, actually rocks his hips up, and it’s honestly just wrong. As _if_ he’d be that easy to read. Everything he does is hiding under layers and layers of misdirection, until it’s impossible to tell if there’s an actual reason for anything he does at all. If Ging were any other person, it would probably be exhausting.

Luckily, he’s not. So he slides two fingers in, deep as he can, and Pariston bucks against him and gasps, _“More.”_

Ging sits up and laughs at him. “Yeah, you wish,” he says, and starts to stroke.

Pariston’s dropped back against the pillows, eyes half shut, biting his lip and making little noises at every touch. Ging sits up to enjoy the view, then pulls himself forward until he can get his mouth on Pariston’s tit again, doesn’t stop sliding in and out of him, free hand tight on his shoulder, pushing him down.

Another couple shifts, and he is kneeling over Pariston, knuckle-deep inside him as Pariston arches and moans. Looks like his facade even extends to body language, because Pariston tries to touch him like they do on TV and in magazines, just a little brush of his fingers to Ging’s cheek, and Ging lets him do it once.

Then he _tsks_ impatiently and ducks away from it, leans down to get his mouth on one of Pariston’s tits instead. He’s already left a couple marks, but a couple more won’t hurt. Besides, Pariston’s left plenty on him.

Up close, he kinda gets why the guy might be hanging onto them; honestly, they’re kinda cute. Man, if they were still in the Zodiacs, he could make a crack about Pariston heading the itty bitty titty committee. 

Ging closes his lips over the tip of one, mouthing broad at first for maximum coverage, then sucking hard on the nipple, perky and pink from all the attention. 

And Pariston is panting hard now, short ragged breaths with a little whine on the exhale, head thrown back, stupid haircut an actual mess now instead of just a manufactured one. But his eyes, when he looks back at Ging, are bright with triumph. Ging eyes him, then grins back.

Good. Right where he wants him. 

Ging leans down and puts his mouth over Pariston’s to shut him up, then really gets to work. Pariston’s back arches, mouth dropping open. Then he’s writhing against Ging, all reaching hands and sweaty limbs, one knee coming up between his, and Ging lets him do it. Hell, he even settles in for a quick ride, because why not.

Pariston’s thigh is all smooth firm muscle, fine hairs not enough to prick or make much of a difference. Easy to grind against it while he keeps his hand working, Pariston whining into his mouth, short and needy. Nice. _Nice._

It’s pretty easy from there, Pariston gasping into his mouth as he presses down against Pariston’s thigh, feeling himself hot and wet and already more than half worked up. He rides one out, leaves a smear on Pariston’s thigh as he blinks away the illusion of brightness at the edge of his vision. It’s all synapses and stimulation, but that’s never stopped anything from being a real good time. 

Meanwhile, Pariston’s having a real good time of his own, if his gasping and slickness and tightness of his cunt around Ging’s fingers are any indication. Ging grins down at him, satisfied, then leans in to leave a little lovebite on Pariston’s neck.

He’s never gotten guys who can’t tell when they’re getting someone off. Sure, lying happens, but just paying attention solves a lot of problems. Words are easy to fake, but bodies hardly ever lie.

For instance, it’s a _lot_ harder to fake the way Pariston spasms, gasping, squeezing tight around his fingers and gushing onto the rest of his hand. Ging keeps going, and Pariston’s wailing now, hips bucking in the damp spot he’s making in the sheets. Whatever. It’s his bed, his problem.

If there’s anyone on this floor who _doesn’t_ know Pariston’s getting laid, then it’d be a small miracle. Not that impressive; they’re after much bigger prey. 

Meanwhile, Pariston’s legs have spread wider, hands tight on Ging’s hips, noises back down to little hoarse moans. Less showmanship, slightly more actual reaction. He’s close. Ging adds a finger, four now, and keeps going. Pariston throws his head back against the sheets, then arcs back up towards Ging, one hand sliding up his thigh towards his crotch. That’s about enough of that.

“You keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break’em,” Ging promises, grabbing that wrist and pinning it to the bed. His other hand stays nearly completely inside Pariston, curling hard and relentless, thumb rough on Pariston’s clit, and that’s what gets him this time around. His whole body arcs, and Ging doesn’t let up, hand slicked, fingertips probably pruning, thrusting in and in and in until Pariston _shrieks._

Ging doesn’t let up, keeps fucking him as he drops back to short and desperate moans, writhing beneath him. Close to overstimmed, but not ready to give in. Ging grins, blinks away sweat. That’s fine by him. 

He doesn’t let up as Pariston starts gasping again, hips pumping jerky and irregular, trying to follow Ging’s lead. Too bad for him, Ging’s not exactly fond of making it easy for people to follow. Not as fun. 

He slows, partly because it’s what Pariston doesn’t want him to do, partly because he can wring different sounds out of him that way. A little lower, little throatier. Pariston half-opens his eyes to watch him at it, biting his lower lip, keeping his hands clear in a cute show of obedience that Ging doesn’t buy for a second.

“Ready?” Ging says, and Pariston just smiles at him, lazy and self-assured. Well, well... looks like he’s learned. Doesn’t matter if the smarmy asshole is ready or not, he’s going to come.

Ging leans in grinning, settles against him from hip to chest, and gives him exactly what he wants. He goes harder than before, a tighter curl with the tips of his fingers and the bend of the second knuckles as two separate points of pressure. He lets the fingers spread a little too, pressing against every soft dip and ridge of Pariston.

Meanwhile Pariston’s giving voice to something high and wordless, wrist twisting in Ging’s grip. Ging tightens his hold, gets his mouth back on one of Pariston’s tits for good measure, licks and bites and fucks as Pariston’s feet scrabble uselessly against the mattress.

It doesn’t take long. Pariston was on the edge already, he just needed another push to send him over, and Ging’s happy to provide. In between shoving Pariston back down and working teeth along the peak of his nipple and cramming his fingers as far and broad as they’ll go, Pariston goes tight, hips jerking sharply up then slamming back down to the bed.

Ging follows him the whole way, hand cupped inside him, doesn’t let up until Pariston screams, keeps working through the rush of wetness that comes immediately after. He keeps bucking up into Ging’s hand after, mouth hanging open, hair matted to his face with sweat. When Ging slides his fingers out, Pariston’s still moaning like he wants nothing else than to go again. Could be fun, but there are some other things they need to take care of.

Ging sits up and wipes his hand off on the sheets, exhales. Then he glances down and there’s Pariston, all wrung-out and glistening with it. Nasty. Objectively, he looks good enough, maybe someone would even think he’s ‘sexy,’ but the entire ‘malicious bastard’ thing is kind of distracting, if not exactly a buzzkill.

Ging leans over the side of the bed to scoop up the rest of his clothes. Pariston watches him do it, eyes half-lidded and smile broad and soft and so fucking full of himself. Ging glances back at him, one eyebrow raised. Then he twists back and leans over to suck a hickey onto the side of Pariston’s neck, and Pariston lets him do it, gasping, hands winding into the sheets.

Ging straightens up again with a pop of lips off wet skin, wiping his mouth, then pulls his clothes on and leaves. There’s only one thing he wants, and this isn’t it. 

For now, though, it’s a pretty good diversion.


End file.
